The Importance of Creative Play in Writing - Greenacre Guest Blog

Guest Blog from A.L. Michael

I’ve been running writing workshops for children for quite a few years now, and what I’ve realised from seeing them interact with the props, play the games, create superheroes and  monsters, is that we have forgotten how to play.

Adults need creative play just as much as children do, but we tend to settle for passive imagination, watching movies, reading books. Being shown something, instead of creating it ourselves. Children become their stories, they act them out, change the rules, get excited. Writing is our chance to do that, to recreate and remember how to play.

It doesn’t mean you have to suddenly write a science fiction story if that’s not what you’re about, but consider how you like to make up stories. Perhaps there are things in your life you’d rewrite? Perhaps those daydreams of what you’d do if you won the lottery could be the start of an epic tale of luxury and drama? What superpower would you have if you could choose?

Stories originate in daydreams, in fantasy, and as adults we have shunned those fantasies for the real world, convinced they have no value, but they do! Children know this, they know that their fantasies can provide hours of fun, that they can draw other people into their worlds with the stories they create.

Take a moment to learn from your children, and whenever you get the chance to play, to be creative and silly and surprising, do so!

For more info on the importance of creative play, writing and wellbeing, click HERE. 

  

A.L. Michael will be running a Creative Writing for Children Workshop as part of TheFinchley Literary Festival, at Friern Barnet Community Library.

Wednesday 28th May
'Write Here, Write Now'

Creative Writing Lesson for Kids

10.30am-11.15pm

11.30am-12.15pm

Create some stories this half term with writer A.L.Michael! Come along and race against time to create a story with The Sixty Second Scribble. Create the scariest villain or most brilliant superhero with The Prop Detective! Then roll The Story Dice to find your setting and get ready to write! Two 45 min sessions of writing games and activities to get young minds imagining! 

Ages 6+ No need to book, just drop in!

(Limit of 20 kids per session)

Baby Farmers - Greenacre Guest Blog

Guest Blog from Caitlin Davies

It’s a warm Sunday morning and I’m standing a little uncertainly on a street of handsome Edwardian houses in East Finchley. The sun seeps out between the clouds, delicate pink blossom falls from roadside trees; it’s a scene of quiet suburban respectability. Yet 100 years ago one of these houses was a lying in home for unmarried pregnant women, and the centre of an infamous murder case that captivated and repulsed the nation.

I’ve come here to meet 32-year-old Penninah Asher; a year ago we’d never heard of each other, now we’re united by a strange case of family history and a century old crime.

Like millions of others in the UK, Penninah is fascinated by genealogy and ten years ago she decided to study her paternal line, “I come from a fractured family on my father’s side; I’m estranged from my dad, I haven’t seen him since I was 16, and I’d never met my grandparents; I didn’t even know their first names. I knew nothing about the family at all.”

Nearly a third of Britons have researched their ancestors online, and in the process one in six have found an illegitimate child or a secret adoption. But Penninah was to find out something far more shocking.

One day she got an email from a man who’d seen her family tree. He asked if she was aware that she was related to a woman convicted for mass murder, “And I thought, oh my god, I went straight back to the tree and I went over and over and checked and double-checked, and he was right.”

Several years after Penninah’s discovery, I came across her forebear as well. In 2007 I moved into a new home in Holloway, a small terraced house built in the 1890s. I became interested in the history of the area, trawling the archives at a local history centre, immersing myself in workhouse records and spending hours Googling leads on the Internet.

Then one day I stumbled across an Edwardian crime that had happened nearby; the case of two notorious baby farmers, Amelia Sach and Annie Walters, the first women to be hanged at Holloway Prison, in 1903.

My first thought was, what was a baby farmer? And so began a year of research which I then turned into a novel, The Ghost of Lily Painter.

Amelia Sach

By the time the novel was finished, Penninah had got in touch to tell me her great grandmother was none other than Amelia Sach’s sister. It was then that we decided to meet up in East Finchley to try and find her forebear’s lying in home.

Sach and Walters in the dock

If you’re interested in hearing more about the Finchley baby farmers – what exactly was their crime and were they guilty? – come to The Finchley Literary Festival on May 31^st at Stephens House and Gardens (formely Avenue House) where I’ll be explaining how I researched the Ghost of Lily Painter and whether we managed to locate the lying in home.

The Ghost of Lily Painter is published by Windmill, as is Caitlin’s latest novel Family Likeness. She is also the author of several non-fiction books, including Taking the Waters: a swim around Hampstead Heath and Camden Lock and the Market, both published by Frances Lincoln.

To find out more about Caitlin’s work visit www.caitlindavies.co.uk or follow her on twitter @CaitlinDavies2

Ten Top Hints to Self-Publishing - Greenacre Guest Blog

Guest Blog from Greenacre Writer Linda Louisa Dell: 

1. Finding a self-publisher

This will depend on what you want. Do you want a hard copy or just an e-book? Do you want a package that contains a marketing plan? The price will vary greatly, from around £10.00 for an e-book alone, to several hundred pounds for added extras. But it is possible to publish your work as both a book and an e-book, with a good cover, for less than £100.00 and then pay extra for publicity, or do your own.

2. Proof reading and editing

If you can afford it, have your work professionally edited. Nothing looks worse than silly spelling and grammatical errors. Do not skimp on this.

3. How do you organize the promotion/sale of your books?

Make no bones about it, this is the hardest part. You have written your book, had it edited, published and bound in a beautiful cover. It is available on Amazon and kindle but now you have to let people know it’s out there. And advertising costs money.

Use twitter and facebook to spread the word. Ask people to write reviews on sites such as Amazon, Lulu or Waterstones. Help each other and exchange reviews. My publisher for The Story Tree created a video promo for Utube.

4. Press Releases and promotional materials

Write a press release and send it out to all your friends, bookshops, local press, club magazines, special interest, history or hobby magazines, and local radio and TV. Produce some flyers and/or postcards and spread them around in social clubs, your local library – anywhere people may see them.

Television promotion is well-nigh impossible to achieve and I have considered many ruses to get noticed by the media. Many independent book shops will stock self-published books on a sale or return basis and you can also approach them to stage readings, talks or book signings.

5. Endorsements

Ask for endorsements from famous people to use on your back cover. Ideally, this should be done before the book goes to print but it is never too late, and they can be used on advertising material and your web page.

 6. Web page and internet sites

Create a web page and keep it updated. Put the address on all your promotional material and send the book to on-line sites for reviews or competitions. Sites like bookopedia will advertise your book for £19.00 a year.

I entered my novel Yes and Pigs Might Fly into a competition for the best self-published fiction and it was nominated for the Wishing Shelf book Awards, coming third in the Best Adult Fiction category.

7. Libraries and Talks

Give copies to your local library and register with ALCS (the Authors Licensing and Collecting Society). Your library will also be able to put you in touch with reading groups and book clubs. You can also give talks to libraries, the Town Women’s Guild, U3A, various social groups, book clubs, and special interest groups.

8. Your cover: who designed it and what did it cost?

Most self-publishing companies will help you with your cover design. If you get this done independently it will cost anything up to two hundred pounds. You will need to produce something eye-catching, but appropriate.

The back cover should contain a ‘blurb’ designed to describe the book and intrigue the reader, and this will often appear as a ‘taster’ on the Amazon website or on kindle. It is also what a prospective buyer will read in a shop and should whet the appetite. If you can get any endorsements and quotes, this is where they should appear.

9. Promotion, advertising and flyers

I designed my own promotional material with the help of Copy Run for the cards and flyers, and The Writers Forum and The Self  Publishing Magazine for the magazine adverts. Advertisers will include this service in the price.

10. What has been the steepest learning curve of the whole process?

It is hard work and you will often feel frustrated and despondent. Don’t expect family or friends to always be helpful; you will have to be very thick skinned at times.

Keep going and do something to promote your book every day. And as Churchill said, never, never give up.

Recommended books:

Marketing and Publicising Books by Mary Cavanagh

1001 Ways to Market Your Books by John Kremer

Linda has self-published six books and several e-books, as well as three books with a regular publisher. Her new novel, Earthscape, will be available later this year. Find out more about Linda.http://www.lindalouisadell.com/

Linda Louisa Dell and Liz Goes will be hosting a self publishing talk as part of the Finchley Literary Festival Wednesday 28th May at Church End Library.

Spring Writing Retreat

Spring Writing Retreat 2014

Rosie Canning is organising a three day writing retreat. This is aimed at writers who want time to work on their writing, there will be no workshops or directed writing. 28th-30th March, 2014 at St Katharine's, Parmoor near Henley on Thames. Full board £160 from Friday teatime-Sunday teatime. Accommodation is in single rooms in the St Joseph's Annexe. St Katharine's This historic house stands in 12 acres of grounds in an area of great scenic beauty and abundant wildlife. The rural tranquility of the Chilterns, combined with a peaceful and relaxed atmosphere, make St. Katharine's an ideal destination for a writing retreat. Visitors are free to stroll around the grounds, or find a quiet corner to write and enjoy the peaceful atmosphere. There are a number of interesting features, including a walled garden, a pond, a formal garden which is in process of being renovated and a former sunken garden, which awaits restoration. You can also visit the chickens, who provide the delicious free-range eggs which are used in the House kitchen, and are also on sale to visitors. If you would like to book your place, contact Rosie Canning: greenacrewriters@gmail.com

Greenacre Writers Round up of 2013

Wishing all our followers a very Happy Christmas

 and a peaceful and joyous 2014

Greenacre Writers has had another busy year, with the year kicking off with a 6-session ‘Start That Novel’ course, led by Rosie Canning, with one session tutored by Dr Josie Pearse and another by Alex Wheatle. The course covered planning a novel, developing plot, characterisation, dialogue, point of view, first chapter, as well as giving participants feedback on their writing.

April saw the publication of Greenacre Writers Anthology Vol 2, with its launch at Cafe Buzz in North Finchley. One of our winning authors, Amy Flinders, was able to attend the launch to receive her prize. Several GW members who contributed stories read extracts aloud to those who came along to help us celebrate. We enjoyed the hospitality from Café Buzz owner, Helen Michaels, who plied us with coffee and cake! For more info click here.

Hot on the heels of the launch was the second Greenacre Writers Literary Festival. From a single event the previous year, it had grown to four; two workshops led by Miriam Halahmy and Josie Pearse, a Spoken Word event at Friern Barnet Community Library and the main event at Trinity Church Centre. Our four guest speakers were Sarah Harrison, Leigh Russell, CJ Flood and Gina Blaxill who gave us entertaining talks and readings. Members of GW also read extracts from their work. The day was rounded off with a lively panel discussion on Truth and Fiction with guest speakers and Alex Wheatle. Moderator was Allen Ashley who kept the passionate writers in line. For more info see here.

The festival launched our third short story competition and we were delighted that Alex Wheatle agreed to be our judge. Our first entry came within days of the launch with the last coming in at a minute before the deadline! The winners were announced in November and the third anthology is now underway.

Our members have been busy with their writing and we are always pleased when they achieve success.

Katie Alford was awarded a prize for her short story competition entry written in the style of a traditional Japanese folklore tale. It will be included in our forthcoming anthology.  

Lindsay Bamfield won a flash fiction competition in Writing Magazine and was shortlisted in the Chudleigh Phoenix short story competition and Flash 500. One of her flash fiction pieces was published in The Best of Café Lit 2012 and she had a 100-worder entitled ‘Gone’ published on the Café Lit website.

Helen Barbour has had great feedback on her very successful blog 'The Reluctant Perfectionist' about living with OCD to tie in with her novel whose main character has this condition. See link to Helen's blog to the right.

Rosie Canning had a 100 word flash fiction ‘Uncoupled’ published on the Café Lit website. She led a writing retreat at St Katharine's, Parmoor where writers were thoroughly spoilt while they got on with their writing. See here for the 2014 Spring Retreat. Once again, she was a reader for Radio Two’s 500 Words competition for children under 13. A preview of her forthcoming publication Occupied and Opened - the story of Friern Barnet Library was held in the library on the 5th September - the book will be published early in 2014. Rosie will also have a chapter in Steering the Mothership: The Complexities of Mothering by Lisa Cherry due to be published on Mother's Day, 30th March 2014. 

Linda Dell published her novel Earthscape, a Long Way from Home, a sci-fi, romance, adventure. One of her short stories was selected for A Wish for Christmas, a book of Christmas stories published by Alfie Dog. She has been approached by a New York publisher, Skyhorse, regarding a book on the A-Z of Aphrodisiacs which will be out next year.

Anna Meryt published a book of poems, Heartbroke. She facilitated and performed in a recent poetry event at The Big Green Bookshop in Wood Green.

Wendy Shillam has regularly published chapters of her online novella The Author’s Song. The link to Wendy's online novella is on the right.

Plans are well underway for next year’s literary festival which has been renamed The Finchley Literary Festival and will be held from 24th to 31st May 2014. Watch this space.

Our three regular groups continue to meet regularly and all our members are busy with their works in progress. We look forward to more achievements next year.

First Prize Winning Story in Greenacre Writers Short Story competition 2013

Flapjack by Sal Page

 17th July

7.46pm - 3 eggs.

I’m waiting. They usually come in sixes. Or twelves. Jade’s upstairs. Hopefully got her earphones in. So hot. I hate summer. The kids stay out longer, which means we’re both stuck in here. I hate having to keep windows shut, draw curtains and sit in with the television on. I’ve turned the volume right up, a sitcom with canned laughter.

8.02pm – 3 more eggs.
I heard them splat against the window. The yolks and whites will be running down the glass. Not a very interesting book I’m writing. Eggs, eggs, flour, tinned tomatoes and spaghetti. Eggs, beans, eggs and more eggs. Just write down what they say and do. Keep a record of dates and times. That’s what I was told. I’m glad these notebooks were ‘buy one get one free’ so I can write more in this second one. 
   Jade was going through the bathroom cabinet before. I asked her what she was looking for. She said ‘nothing’ and started tidying it away. She said she was sorting the cupboard out. Very suspicious. She doesn’t even tidy her own room without prompting. I’ll make her favourite omelette tonight. Cheese and mushroom. 

8.56pm ‘We’re gonna get you, ya fucking fat bitches’ More eggs and something heavy hit the window. Don’t know what it is.

That was loud. Don’t think the window broke this time. At least the car they set fire to has gone this week.
   I asked Jade did she want something putting on the shopping list but she just shrugged. I heard the pring of her phone. I’m glad she’s in touch with her mates in the holidays though she doesn’t go out much. I asked if she was going to look at her message. She just said ‘later’ and went back upstairs. She spends a lot more time in her room here but she’ll be fourteen next year. Won’t want to hang out with me at all soon.

9.02pm - Tinned spaghetti thrown at the front door and living room window. I looked out, tried to not let them see me. They shouted ‘Fat Cow’ when they saw me at the window. Then ‘Fucking Fat Bitches’, over and over.

Nothing’s been the same since we had to move. This wouldn’t have happened in Greenacres. There were more places for kids to go round there. That bastard, Dave. I can understand him leaving me but what about her? She’s his daughter and he can’t even phone or send something for her birthday.

9.20pm - They’re in the garden of the empty house. Four of them, two Hegleys, two others. The one with the red jacket.

9.32pm - More pasta and eggs, thrown at the kitchen window. I shut the blind. Shouting but I couldn’t hear what. Loud music on TV.

I’m sure they make the adverts louder. I didn’t want to hear what they were shouting but I’m supposed to write it down.

10.22pm – Tomatoes and cakes. Two of them came through the gate and squashed cakes into the letterbox. ‘Fucking fat bitches’ a few times through the letterbox. 

They could see me standing in the hall. Cake is a new one. I watched it land on the mat. I wanted to do something but didn’t know what. I’ve been told not to speak to them again. Just supposed to stay indoors and write it down.
   It’s three weeks since I went out and told them to leave us alone. They just laughed. I wish I hadn’t said anything. Got worse since. They started throwing the tins. That’s when I called the police. Two days peace we had till they came back.
   I’m sure Dave’s Mum knows his new number. She doesn’t care about her grand daughter. Makes me think of me and Gran and all the times I stayed with her. I wish Jade could’ve had that. It’s been horrible for her recently, starting senior school and having to move to a new one after one term. 
   I’m in bed now. Jade was still on her laptop when I looked in. I told her to switch off and get some sleep.

18th July

8.14pm – They’re out there again, arrived later tonight. Messing about in next door’s garden, pretending to fight with the planks from the fence. Three Hegleys this time, the older brother too. And the one with the red jacket and the little blond one. They were shouting and laughing but I don’t think it was directed at us.

Jade went out early. She was gone all morning. When she came back she said she’d been shopping. I could see from the bags she’d been to Superdrug and Wilkies. I told her I could’ve got whatever she needed from Asda. Your shampoo was on offer, she said. I asked if she wanted the money. She just shrugged and went upstairs. 
   She only came down when I called her for tea. Spaghetti Bolognese. I make it from scratch with carrots and mushrooms, a glug of red wine and lots of garlic. Most people these days buy a jar and just add to the meat but that’s not the same. Jade likes it with lots of cheese melted on top. It seemed to cheer her up. Me too. Even scooping spaghetti and tomatoes up from the doorstep and scraping it off the windows doesn’t put me off.

8.36pm – Eggs – 6 all at once.

I notice they’ve left the box in our hedge.
   We stay in more now. When going out involves getting past at least three boys calling names after you down the street and everyone staring, you tend to do that. Did the supermarket shop at one in the morning last week. I waited till they left, then went out and got a taxi. Bought anything that was on offer and lots of basics and tinned stuff. Not much left of this month’s money but we’re well stocked up.

8.55pm - 9.04pm – Flour, more eggs and beans.

Got to draw the curtains now. I have to crawl on the floor, slowly reach up and hope they don’t notice. Just went and made coffee. Jade’s taken the Jaffa Cakes upstairs again. She was rooting through the junk drawer in the kitchen after tea. What’s she looking for? She received a lot of texts tonight. She never looks happy to get them though. Don’t think she even bothers replying. 
   She was on her laptop most of the evening. I wish she’d stay down here with me. She used to sit downstairs more at the old place. Showed me all the stuff she looked up online for that North Pole project she did before Christmas. She showed me the forum where she was talking about Hollyoaks with someone in Dundee and the photo she put on Facebook. It’s the one Dave took of her in the New Forest last summer. A boiling hot, two-ice-cream day. Her face is all red from sunburn but she looks really happy. She’s wearing that orange tie-dye top. She’s outgrown that now.
   Jade thinks it’s her they’re shouting at. I keep telling her it’s me but we know it’s both of us. I once asked if anyone ever said anything at school and she said no straight away. Maybe it’s different these days. Well, bullying’s talked about more now. That’s the impression I get from television. 
   I went into Jade’s room just now. She slammed the laptop shut. I asked if she was all right. She said ‘fine’ and hugged me goodnight. I thought she’d stopped doing that. I suggested we go out tomorrow. Get the train into town. Go shopping. Put it on the credit card. Treat ourselves for the holidays. Go to the Italian for pizza and a sundae. Even though it isn’t Sunday I said, like we always say. She just shrugged and gave a little half-smile. I said ‘we’ll see in the morning’.

10.03pm - 12 Eggs. Laughing. Usual names - Fat bitches, fat cow, fat pigs, sometimes with ‘fucking’ in front, sometimes without. Went on until …

10.12pm – The older brother turned up in a car, they all piled in and left.

You’d think they could find something better to do. And why is it always animals? Is it such an insult? I like animals. People say ‘chicken’, ‘what a bunch of sheep’ and ‘rat’ as well.
   They’ve probably gone up to Asda to nick some more supplies. Mr. Mistry told me he won’t let them in his shop anymore. I hate having to go out early to clean up. I scoop the food up with the dustpan. The smell of raw eggs and spaghetti mixed together makes me feel sick. I knock it into doubled-up carrier bags and tie them tightly. Bits of shell get stuck in the bristles and I have to wash the brush and pan. Then I fill a bucket with hot water, mop the step, wipe the windows down and polish them. That’s my morning routine these days. Before Jade gets up and before the people next door the other side see.
   I’ve had this idea. Give them a taste of their own medicine. I would get a load of syrup and warm it gently. Not so hot it’ll burn, just enough to make it runny. There’d be buckets of it on the windowsill in my bedroom. I’d take one bucket of the syrup outside earlier, pour a layer on the path and flowerbed. I’d get boxes and boxes of porridge oats and cheap rice krispies and a few pots of those horrible sticky clown’s-nose cherries. Jade loves those. I’d have them ready on the bed behind me. Then I’d wait till they arrive. I’d have to get them to come near the house. I’d pull back the curtains and put the light on. That would make them come over. 
   I’d be ready, waiting for the right moment before opening the window. Their laughter, swearing and jeering stirring up my stomach, spurring me on. As fast as I could, I’d pour the syrup over them. They’d probably start to run away, feet getting stuck on the path. Then I’d get the catapult I’d constructed earlier. I’m not sure how I’d do that. Perhaps I borrowed Jade’s laptop and googled catapults. I’d fill the big plastic bowl with the oats and krispies and fire them out of the window to land on their heads. They’d stick to the syrup in their hair. Then, I’m sure they’d be out of the gate by now, hopefully there’d be enough time to send the clown’s noses after the rest.
   Then it would be me laughing at them. At the window, just laughing at them with helmets of that sticky, oaty, crispy mess setting on their heads. I’d still be laughing later, thinking of all the other kids laughing and then their families laughing when they get home. Imagine having to wash that out! They’d be picking off cherries and pulling clumps of hair-flapjack off their heads. They’d be trying to shower it off with the hot water melting the syrup and soggy cherry porridge collecting in the plughole. They’d have to scoop it out or it would clog up the drains. Hope their dads give them a slap instead of giving me dirty looks whenever I try to suggest they speak to their sons about how rude they are to my daughter.

Of course I wouldn’t do this. The police community support officer would have something to say. Just keep a record, she says. Dates and times. Yes, it’d be me in trouble and I’m sure no one would even notice me saying ‘They started it.’ A childish thing to say, I know. But they did.
   They’ve not been back yet. It’s gone 11 now. I’ve just called Jade to see if she wants a drink. No answer.
   She’s probably listening to her music. I’ll read her my flapjack idea tomorrow.
   I’m quite proud of it. Bet it’ll make her laugh.



 

Sal has a Creative Writing MA from Lancaster University, won the Calderdale Short Story Prize in 2011 and has stories published in various places, both online and in print, such as Jawbreakers, Greenacre Writers Anthology Volume 1, Stories for Homes and The Pygmy Giant. She’s been placed in several competitions and short listed in many more. She is writing her second novel, Curls, while looking for an agent for her first novel Queen of the World.

Second prize winner in Greenacre Writers Short Story competition 2013

Colours Fade to Black and White by Jo Derrick

My life seems to be made up of spinning yo-yos. There they go in a kaleidoscope of colours like the stained glass in next door’s window. Pinks, purples, yellow, reds and greens. This is my world.    
         We have steamed vegetables for tea. They arrived earlier today in a bio-degradable easily-to-fold-down box. All organic, of course and so fresh they hardly take any cooking. Mum doesn’t buy supermarket vegetables. She says it’s like eating plastic and goodness only knows how long they’ve been in transit.
            We don’t eat meat in this house. As far as Mum is concerned, I’ve never eaten meat, but I couldn’t resist trying a bacon roll at Casey’s house once and another time a tuna mayo sandwich. It was what everyone else was having and I didn’t want to make a fuss or to be different from the others.
            As I sit eating my corn-on-the-cob, melted butter dripping down my chin, I think about Delith Jones. She hadn’t long joined our school before she was abducted. I liked her dark curly hair and goofy teeth. She was kind to me.
            Now I can’t step outside the front door without Mum or Dad asking where I’m going and who with. They have a five step policy in place; things I have to do if I’m suspicious of anyone. The one I won’t be able to do is to kick him in the wotsits. I mean, he’d just grab my leg, wouldn’t he and then he’d see my knickers and he’d have won.

They still haven’t found Delith, nor her body. At school we imagine what could have become of her. Anita says she thinks she’s been strangled and dumped in the river. Casey says she’s still alive and being kept in a locked-up shed at the bottom of someone’s garden, and Paul Mallander says she’s been battered to death with a brick.
            I think a man and a lady who can’t have babies and IVF hasn’t worked for them have taken her to be their special little girl. Delith’s probably wearing Mini Boden clothes and attending tap and ballet lessons in Primrose Hill like my cousin. A better life than this boring old town.
            Mum says never to talk to strangers, but if I listened to her, then I’d never have made friends with Mr Timms at Number 53, nor his Polish lodgers who have very red faces and deep voices.

I’m sitting on the front garden wall waiting for Dad to come home and I’m playing with next door’s tabby cat. Shilough, he’s called. He spends more time at our house than next door. Mum says it’s because they’re rubbish pet owners and leave him locked outside most of the day. I pick long stalks of grass and flick them around to tease him. He seems to like that and plays for ages. When Mum’s not looking I pour some full fat organic milk into an old bowl and give it to Shilough. She’s told me hundreds of times not to encourage him, but he’s so sweet, I can’t resist and I’m sure next door don’t feed him properly. Not Mr Timms at Number 53. The other side. The Whites.
            Mr White is always in the corner shop buying firelighters. I had to ask Mum what they were. She said they were white blocks you put on an open fire to keep it from going out. I like the black box they come in. It has pretty orange flames on it. Mr White has whitish-grey hair and bright twinkly blue eyes. He never says hello and he shuffles. I’ve never seen him wearing shoes, only slippers; tartan ones with cream edging.
            Mum says the Whites have a hoarding problem. I’m not really sure what that is, but their windows are dirty and they always have the curtains closed so you can’t see inside. Mum says all sorts could be going on in there and no one would ever know.
            For a moment I wonder whether Delith Jones is in there.
            Mum says the Whites’ property would be worth a fortune, if they did it up. They have a four-bedroom Victorian house like ours on the outskirts of town with all its original features. She says if it was renovated like ours, then it would be worth at least £600,000. I can’t imagine that much money. Lots of weekly shops, and super deluxe veg boxes from Wild and Free Organics, anyway.
            “Don’t go wandering off!” Mum shouts from the front door. “Bath time in ten minutes!”
            That means at least twenty. She’ll either be texting Auntie Carole or having a sneaky glass of wine before Dad gets home. Or both.
            Shilough lies down so that I can tickle his belly. I do it with a stalk of grass, because my hands go all blotchy and red if I touch his fur. I get that from Dad. It’s why we can’t have a cat of our own, he says.
            I hear the Whites’ front door slam and look up.
            Mrs White levers herself down the front steps. Mum says she’s a martyr to her arthritis. She has a brown and red checked shopping bag over her arm. She never speaks and always looks at the floor. Her hair is dyed a weird orangey colour, as if she’s left the dye on too long or something. She ignores Shilough, and he doesn’t seem bothered.
            When she turns the corner, I dare myself to run to their front door and lift the letterbox. It’s something I’ve been trying to do for ages. I just want to peer into their hallway to see the newspapers and old milk cartons; to see if what Mum says is true. It’s so dark in there, though, I can’t see a thing. I fiddle around in my pocket till I find what I need.
            My heart is thrumming like the old traction engines Dad took me to see at the steam fair last week. I look left and right, then just as I’m lifting the letterbox, I see a shadow pass by the window and I shiver. Someone is watching me. My mouth goes dry and it tastes like I’ve been munching on metal. For a moment I’m frozen; as if my feet are cemented into the floor. I feel as if I’m going to wet myself, then I hear Shilough’s miaow, which makes everything seem normal and safe. I turn from the door and run back to our garden. I should go inside now, but I want to see what happens.
            Dad will be home from work any minute now. I start looking for his bike. He always cycles to work. The only time we use the car is for holidays and weekend trips to visit family. Anita’s mum calls us ‘eco-warriors’ whatever they are. Dad says we’re Green.
            It’s then I hear a tap-tapping on the window. I turn around expecting to see Mum calling me in. Tap tap-tap. I can’t see Mum’s face at the window. Then I look next door.
            The Whites’ curtain is twitching and I see a fist at the window. Tap tap-tap.
            I stay on our side of the path and walk a little closer to the window. I can see a smudgy shape through the thin curtain. It’s probably creepy Mr White. I remember Mum and Dad’s five step policy regarding strangers. The first step is to run into our house as fast I can, if I’m near home, that is.
             My legs won’t move.
            The fist isn’t big enough for Mr White’s. It’s a child’s fist knocking the window, I’m sure.
            “Molly! Inside now!” Mum shouts.
            I should do as I’m told, but I need to know if it really is Delith Jones knocking at the window. Perhaps the Whites have half-buried her beneath piles of old newspapers and plastic milk cartons?
            I creep closer; as close as I dare. I can see an orangey glow through the curtains, then smoke. Someone is coughing; choking even.
            Mr White and his firelighters. A box every day. Why does he need so many? What if he’s bought them to help set his house on fire and burn the evidence?
            I hear a bicycle bell behind me and Dad’s waving and grinning like a loony. Suddenly everything seems less scary.
            “What are you doing spying on the Whites, Molly, love?”
            I put my fingers to my lips and call him over. I can smell the smoke now and the orange glow is brighter. I feel excited and wonder whether I’ll see that kaleidoscope of colours I see when Dad has a bonfire in the back garden. I’m just about to ask him, but he’s busy talking into his Iphone.

I never did get to have a bath that night. Mum said it was far too late by the time the fire brigade had gone.
            Delith’s parents bought me a big cuddly cat and a box of chocolates. I can’t understand why, because I didn’t do anything.
            Mr and Mrs White don’t live next door anymore.
            Mum says they’re in custody, whatever that means. Perhaps they live in a world that’s yellow and thick.
            The RSPCA man was nice, but he said I couldn’t keep Shilough. Maybe Dad told him about my rash.
            I accidentally told Casey’s mum and dad about the matches when they were feeding me more bacon sandwiches one Saturday morning. I only fed two through the letter box so that I could see inside a bit better.
            They promised not to tell.
            There isn’t a kaleidoscope of colours next door now. The door is charred black against the white walls and now the Whites have gone, so have my spinning yo-yos and my world is a dull shade of grey.


Jo Derrick has numerous short stories and articles published in a wide range of publications, including Mslexia, Writers’ Forum, Woman’s Weekly Fiction Special, Take A Break’s Fiction Feast, Upstart!, Peninsular, Buzzwords, The Whittaker Prize Anthology. She is currently planning an e-book of her prize-winning short stories. Jo is the editor/publisher of The Yellow Room Magazine, a print journal for women writers and former publisher of QWF Magazine. She is working on a psychological crime novel.